Any Way the World Spins
by Spherically Adept
Summary: A threat like none the nations have ever experienced is preparing to strike. They have fought amongst themselves for centuries, but can they come together to defeat this outsider? And will they find themselves along the way? Pairings inside.


A/N: Hey, there! I'm Elle. Any Way the World Spins is going to be a joint project between myself and Bree, which will (hopefully) be updated on a regular basis. The pairings (in the section) are going to be:

GerIta

RoChu

Onesided AmePan

Onesided USUK

Warnings for this section: Angst, implied rape, discussion of controversial topics

You are entitled to your opinions, but please do not flame this story because you do not like ours.

Thanks so much to our wonderful Beta, Krosso Heemskerk, for reading and editing this monster. =)

Disclaimer: We only own the plot, not Hetalia, any related characters, or any characters taken from anywhere else.

I hope you enjoy the story; translations will be at the bottom.

* * *

Germany stood nervously outside the front door of the restaurant, checking his watch for the fifth time in the past seven minutes. Italy was now three minutes late.

The normally stoic nation could feel an anxiety attack coming on and sought to distract himself by fixing his clothes. Turning to the window behind him, he checked over his appearance for the tenth time since he'd arrived, earning him strange looks from the people sitting inside. He fidgeted with his gloves, straightened his tie, and tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles. Leaning closer to the window, he squinted, as he tried to discern whether or not there were any stray hairs sticking up (there weren't), and ran his hand over his slicked back hair several times anyways. He quickly turned around in embarrassment when he noticed a pair of teenage girls pointing and giggling at him. Clearing his throat nervously, Germany checked his watch again; four minutes late. He shifted uncomfortably as his mind conjured up disturbing images of what might have befallen his Italian crush, and caused him to be late. What if Italy had decided he didn't like Germany after all? Or what if he had gotten lost and fallen down a manhole? Or, worst of all, what if he had encountered...FRANCIS? And was that a spot on his impeccably shined shoes...?

Germany panicked, and was just about to run off in search of his clueless date, when-

"Doitsu, Doitsu!" a familiar cheery voice shouted from behind him. Germany let out a sigh of relief, as concern was replaced by irritation. He whipped around as Italy hugged (tackled) him, "I'm here, Ve~!"

"Feliciano, you're late." He said with an unintentional scowl, standing awkwardly still as the Italian embraced him. By the time Italy pulled away, his expression had progressed to a combination of the Uncomfortable German Grimace of Awkwardness® and Scary German Glare of Disapproval® (to hide the fact that he was blushing), successfully scaring his little friend into a fit of submissive tears.

"Ve~ I'm sorry Doitsu! Please don't hit me! I- I promise I won't do it again!" Italy cried, tears welling up in his- closed- eyes.

"Feliciano, stop! I-I'm not angry with you!" Germany said desperately while attempting to relax his facial muscles into something less intimidating. The tears disappeared immediately.

"Ve~ that's good! Come on, then, Doitsu!" Italy grinned as he dragged Germany excitedly into the the restaurant. It was a beautiful restaurant, with high ceilings and open, well-lit rooms, decorated with an eclectic mixture of items, most of them having to do with the preparation of pasta. Germany now understood why Italy had chosen this particular venue.

"Due, per favore!" Italy requested cheerfully to the maitre'd.

"Privato?" the man questioned.

"Si." Italy answered. The man lead them down a hallway, turning left into an empty room at the end of it, with only a few booths against one wall.

"Grazie!" Italy thanked the man and dug a bill out of his pocket as a tip. The matradee thanked the couple with a smile, before leaving Germany and Italy to seat themselves in the booth that had been indicated for them. Italy's mouth instantly started moving as he began to chatter aimlessly about his day.

"So today, Romano-niichan made me pasta for breakfast and it was really good though I think he might have used too many tomatoes but you know he can't help that since he used to live with Spain but it was good anyways but then this cat came and stole my last meatball and so I was chasing it but it ran into Greece's house and then Greece got really mad at me for chasing a cat but then I apologized and so he wasn't mad anymore but then I saw these really cute girls and I talked to them for a bit..."

Germany nodded habitually, not really paying attention to Italy's mindless babble. He instead focused his attention on Italy's face and began committing every detail to memory. (Not because he just liked staring at him, of course. It was a precaution, in case he ever needed to write a missing person poster or recount his appearance to the police should he ever go missing.) He felt a small smile creep onto his face as he took in the other's joyous expression; the utterly adorable way his eyes were closed, the way his smile seemed to make the room slightly brighter, the comical swoop of his curl (though he felt slightly guilty looking at that area now that he knew what it actually was).

"Ve~ Doitsu, so what do you think?" Italy asked. It was when Germany failed to respond that Italy finally noticed the zoned out happy expression he was staring at him with. Frankly, that expression was a tad bit unnerving on the normally stern German's face. "Ve, Are you okay Doitsu? Doitsu, say something!" Italy exclaimed when Germany continued to be unresponsive.

"Hmm? Oh...um...I'm fine, Feliciano, I just..." Germany stuttered, snapping out of his trance. A scarlet blush painted his cheeks when he realized he'd just been caught staring, and the moment had the potential to become really awkward if not for the life saving waiter who appeared to take their order.

"Benvenuto! Il mio nome è Marco, e io sarò il vostro cameriere per questa sera. Sei pronto a ordinare?"

"Ciao, Marco!" Italy began cheerfully, "Si, lo siamo. Potremmo bisogna procurarsi i fettuccine alfredo e...um..." Italy looked over at Germany, who was staring at his menu in confusion. Oh! Right! He had forgotten Germany couldn't read Italian.

"Ti servano Wurst?" he asked the waiter, who then looked even more confused than Germany. Taking that as a sign that they didn't, Italy continued,

"Bene, allora portargli fettuccine, anche, per favore. Oh! E potrebbe arrivare a noi alcune delle vostre pane squisito bastoni? lo li amo! Grazie, Marco!"

Marco nodded, smiling once more, then left the room to fill the order.

"What did you ask him to bring us?" Germany questioned after the man had gone.

"Pasta~!" Italy exclaimed blithely.

He should have known.

Since he really could not think of anything intelligent to say, Germany continued to fiddle nervously with cuffs of his sleeves, lost in thought as Italy chattered aimlessly. He had a reason, of course, for inviting Italy out with him, to a restaurant of the Italian's choosing. But every time he tried to say it, his throat would close up and his bashful nature would get the better of him. Damn! And after he'd practiced in front of the mirror all afternoon too... Why wasn't there a manual about how to tell someone something like this?

_Best to simply get it over with_, he thought looking across the table at his love. Italy, however, was still talking and showed no sign of slowing down, so Germany was forced to interrupt him.

"Feliciano," he said hesitantly.

"Yes, Doitsu?" Italy said, perking up immediately.

"I have something...something important to tell, you Italia," he began nervously, "I...I...um...remembered something a few days, or maybe it was weeks, no definitely a few days ago...about...about our...relationship...in the...past- "

"Oh! Doitsu that reminds me the other day I was..." Italy interrupted as he launched into another long explanation of one of his daily exploits and mishaps.

Germany sighed internally. Perhaps it would be better to postpone the conversation until after the meal was over. Italy was usually marginally more calm after eating- mostly because he was tired.

He let his crush continue speaking as he himself set his obsessive compulsive nature into play. He straightened the silverware and the napkins, made sure the menu card was perfectly straight on its stand, and attempted to surreptitiously wipe the table. Normally he would try his best to listen to Italy's endless prattle, but this new and frankly astonishing news was causing him to lose focus. Everything had to happen _perfectly_.

Italy, for his part, had begun to notice that Germany wasn't really paying attention; the Italian normally wouldn't worry all that much about it, but it was odd for Germany to be so distracted. He began to wonder if it was because he wasn't talking about anything that interested the German. He switched topics, trying to think of things the other would like to discuss (or rather, hear him discuss) like the further production of white flags, pasta, wurst, beer, pasta...or...um...pasta, but Germany was still oddly inattentive.

Just when Italy was really beginning to worry that something had gone wrong (was Germany planning to leave him?) the food arrived, pushing all his concerns to the back of his mind until the plate had been thoroughly cleaned.

* * *

Germany sighed to himself as he escorted Italy back to his house. He had tried his best but he just couldn't bring himself to tell Italy about his new-found revelation. His reticence was making it really hard for him to speak his mind. Granted, Italy's non-stop babble and goldfish-worthy attention span did not exactly help in his endeavors, but in the end, it was still his fault. He shook his head in a futile attempt to rid himself of the unseen force tying his tongue into a hopeless knot. Suddenly, he felt a warm hand wrap around his wrist and bring him to a standstill. Looking up, he saw that they had reached Italy's house; setting his thoughts aside, he turned to look at Italy and was shocked to find himself looking into Italy's warm brown eyes.

"Ve~, Doitsu." Italy started hesitantly, "I just wanted to let you know that I had a really good time with you tonight. If it's not too much trouble, could we do it again sometime?"

Germany stood rooted to the ground in shock, was Italy legitimately asking him out?

After several minutes of watching Germany stare at him speechlessly, Italy began to feel like something wasn't right, "Ve~, Doitsu, say something." he implored for the second time that night.

"Um, yeah, sure." Germany mumbled after getting over the initial shock. "Anytime Italy."

"Okay, Doitsu!" Italy said, his eyes and expression returning to normal, "We should get together tomorrow then!" He paused with his mouth open as if he had something more to say and wasn't sure if he should say it. "You know Doitsu, you really remind me of someone."

"Do I?" Germany asked, "Who?"

"Ahh, my first love. I told you about him on Valentine's day, remember? His name was Holy Roman Empire, and he was always really nice to me, like you are now." Italy said with a large smile, causing Germany to blush a brilliant shade of scarlet, "He acted like you a lot, and his food tasted bad too, but he..." Italy trailed off, the smile dropping off his face, and looked away into the distance with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "He went away one day and left me behind. He said that he would come back, he promised he would, and he told me to wait for him; and I have been waiting but it's been almost three hundred years now, and he- he hasn't come back." Tears were definitely welling in his eyes now, and his normally cheerful expression had been replaced by one of genuine sadness. Looking up, Italy saw Germany's bewildered expression and hurriedly wiped his eyes, "Ve~, sorry to make you listen to all of this," Italy said with a small sad smile, "I'll stop now."

They stood in silence for a little while until Germany finally worked up the courage to speak. "About that," Germany swallowed strengthening his resolve, "Feliciano, I- I am the Holy Roman Empire, or what's left of him anyways. It's just that I lost my memory for a really long time after those wars, because I kind of died for a while, but I remember now and, well-" Germany shifted a little in embarrassment as a blush colored his cheeks; looking down at Italy, he felt himself almost choke on a surge of love for the small, hopeless nation. Stepping back, Germany opened his arms wide and said with an affectionate voice, "I'm back Italia. I came back just like I said I would."

Italy stood rooted to the ground in shock. Staring up at Germany, he finally saw the man's resemblance to his beloved Holy Roman Empire, and just as the taller nation was beginning to feel foolish and more than a little panicked, Italy rushed forward, burying his face in Germany's shirtfront. It was soon soaked with the happy tears streaming down Italy's face, but Ludwig could care less. He just held onto Italy for all he was worth, kissing the top his head and whispering softly in his ear, "I've always loved you, Italia. Ever since the 900's."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland (the living representation of the United Kingdom) lay on his side in bed, staring out of his window apathetically, as he tried to motivate himself into at least turning over. His economy was in a slump after WWII, and as a result he had to endure a horrendous cold. This irked him; he'd missed an extremely important World conference today, at which several key issues were supposed to have been discussed; although they probably hadn't been. Generally, these meetings did nothing put pit rival countries against each other in arguments over trivial matters. Not that Arthur would ever admit anything he argued about was pointless (His scones were delicious, damn it, and he'd have a go at anyone who said otherwise!)

Outside, the rain continued to pour down in thick torrents, with no sign that it would stop anytime soon, which was why England was attempting to make himself move. He hated the rain. He used to like it, but now… certain events had transpired, and now he hated it. Almost enough to move. Almost.

Just then the doorbell rang. Arthur groaned and shut his eyes. Maybe, if he ignored them, whoever it was would give up and go away.

There were about thirty seconds of silence followed by a stream of insistent ding-dongs as the door bell rang twenty times in quick succession. Ugh. He should have known it'd be him. Karma had always hated the British man.

Forcing himself to get to his feet as the doorbell continued to ring without letup, he trudged to the front door, and yanked it open to find an irritatingly cheerful Alfred Jones, aka America, on the other side.

"What?" He asked, feeling too horrible to even put in the effort of yelling at the bloody idiot for practically destroying his doorbell with his incessant ringing.

"Hi, Iggy!" the blue eyed nation greeted him cheerfully. He was toting a large cardboard box with him, and carrying it in such a way that only his face from his sky-blue eyes upward was visible, with Nantucket springing impossibly skyward from his unruly hair.

"Out. Get out, you bloody wanker." England said. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with America right now.

America pouted. (Or, at least, England assumed he did. He got that look in his eyes, like he used to when he was little.) "But Iggy," he whined, "I came all the way over here in the rain and everything! And I want to help you with your cold; my boss gave me all this stuff and told me to bring it over here, and Francis showed me what to do! Pleeeeeaaaase Iggy? At least let me in; I forgot my umbrella, and everything's getting wet!"

Good Lord, Francis had taught him what to do? That perverted frog had probably shown him a completely vulgar usage of whatever was in the box. As if the little bastard wasn't already uncouth enough. Sighing, England stood aside, clearing the way for Alfred to come in. When America wanted something, he could be very persistent; Arthur wasn't sure why the younger nation had even bothered waiting for his consent to enter. He probably would have barged in anyway.

"Don't call me Iggy." Was all he said, as he beckoned America forward into his home.

"Thanks, Iggy!" He said as he moved forward, dripping water all over England's beautiful hardwood floors, and completely ignoring Arthur's last statement.

"Get a towel and dry off, idiot!" England ordered irritably, as America dumped the box and a backpack he'd been carrying onto his antique sofa. Luckily neither of the items was too wet by that point; it would only be more of a mess for him to clean up later. Anytime America visited, England's normally spotless home ended up looking as though a tornado had torn through it.

Arthur closed the door and leaned backward against the wall, putting a hand to his aching head. Bloody recession.

America wandered back into the room after retrieving a towel, and quickly drying his face and hair. He carefully removed his precious coat and hung it on the coat rack in the corner of the room, shoving his gloves in one of the pockets. He rummaged around in the backpack on the couch, pulling out a spare set of clothes.

"Be right back, Iggy, gotta change," he called behind him as he walked down the hall to the bathroom, "All the stuff in the box is for you, if you wanna start looking while I'm gone."

"Want to." England corrected absently as he walked over to the box, figuring he might as well see what the idiot had thought would help treat a cold. Knowing him, it was probably hamburgers.

He was surprised to find aspirin, a few cans of chicken soup, several boxes of tissues and a box of his favorite tea lying on top of a neatly folded blanket inside. There was no way America had thought of this himself. The items were actually practical.

England grabbed the tea, aspirin, and a box of tissues, and then moved into the kitchen where he filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. He retrieved the teapot from its place in above the sink and was about to warm it with tap water, when he was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Nuh-uh, Iggy," said America, "You're supposed to be resting. I'll finish."

England snorted and pushed past him. "As if I'd ever let you anywhere near a teakettle; you couldn't make a decent cup if your life depended on it."

America pouted. "That's not fair, Iggy," he said, "I can so make tea! You taught me once, remember?"

"Yes, but I can't imagine you took much from the lesson, as you weren't even paying attention." The British nation retorted.

"Yes I was!" Alfred insisted childishly. Arthur shot him a disbelieving look. "Well, sort of. But I asked the lady who sold that to me how to make it, and she showed me, after I explained it was for someone else." He took the pot from England's hands and pushed him gently toward the door. "Go. I can do it, I'm the hero!"

England rolled his eyes, grabbed the aspirin and the tissues, and then trudged upstairs. It wasn't worth it to waste energy on that idiot.

Arthur was almost worried about Alfred. He was being decidedly less egotistical than normal, not to mention a lot less obnoxious. He hoped that his former charge hadn't gotten sick as well…not because he cared, no, of course not; simply because if he was sick, then soon the entire globe would be.

Pushing his concerns to the back of his head for the time being, he curled up on in his bed (facing away from the window this time), pulled the blankets up past his shoulders, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, it was dawn, and the sun rising slowly over the horizon. Arthur blinked sleepily, and then turned over to check the time on the wall clock. He sat up abruptly. That couldn't be right. It had only been afternoon when Alfred had come over yesterday, four, maybe five at the latest. He hadn't slept the rest of the day, had he? He must have been more ill than he had originally thought.

He got out of bed, feeling slightly better than the previous day, and noticed a cold cup of tea sitting on his nightstand, along with a note written in the sloppiest, most illegible handwriting he had ever seen. He sighed. For the life of him Arthur could not conceive of where Alfred had acquired such poor penmanship skills. Certainly not from him.

He picked up the note, squinting at it, and read,

Hey, Iggy!

Told you I could do it! Anyway, dunno when you're planning on getting up, but I didn't want to wake you, you looked so (something was scribbled out here) not-angry, for once. I gotta go visit someone, but my boss wants me to come back here, so I'll see you again later. (Isn't that great? You're so lucky you get to see someone as heroic as I am again!) I left all that stuff downstairs; I'll bring more when I come back. Try not to die from food poisoning, 'kay? Someone might miss you or something.

-The Hero

England shook his head, smiling slightly. It seemed his concerns had been unfounded. America was still a narcissistic git.

Even so, England found himself looking forward to the American's next visit. Not that anyone would ever get him to admit it.

* * *

Alfred walked in to the hospital room, left hand clamped tightly around a single branch of cherry blossoms, right hand constantly moving, fidgeting; jumping from his glasses, to the frayed end of his hero T-shirt; moving the zipper on his bomber jacket up and down, and playing with strands of his unruly hair. His eyes darted around the room nervously; sterile and silent, but for the thankfully steady beep of the heart monitor, and the ticking of the clock. He just stood in the doorway for a few moments; as if unsure of whether or not he should be there. Abruptly he moved to sit by the bed, pulling an uncomfortable chair from its place against the wall, almost too small to accommodate his lanky frame.

"Hey, Kiku," he began, sounding nervous, to the comatose figure lying on the bed in front of him, "D-dunno if you can hear me…I just came to see if you were alright, and to…to…bring you these flowers! I remembered I saw 'em when I was here last time, before…before…"

He put the flowers on the edge of the bed, then covered his face with his hands, roughly pushing them into his hair while resting his elbows on his knees. "Aw, listen to me, I sound like Mattie! I just…cametotellyouIwassorry." He said hurriedly.

"I didn't mean to hurt you like that Kiku, I just…you wouldn't give up, and I thought there wasn't another way, you know? …it wasn't a very heroic thing to do, but I was kinda mad at you, too. You hurt me when I didn't even do anything to you! …And I was upset, and I just wanted to make you stop…I guess I wasn't really thinking about what would happen."

He sat in silence for a moment, fiddling with the end of his jacket.

"I saw some of your people…" he muttered, "Here, in the hospital. I didn't know…what those things would really do. I prob'ly shoulda thought about it more. I mean…I guess they did what they were supposed to…the war's over. But I keep thinking about…whether it was worth the price…?" He sighed, then laughed suddenly; though the sound lacked its usual joviality; it was almost bitter.

"Would you listen to me, Kiku? I sound like all you old people. A hero isn't supposed to doubt himself…right? But I am. Because...'cause I never hurt one of my friends this bad before…and I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do."

"…I keep saying stuff over and over again." He was rambling a bit, "I think Iggy'd call it 'circular reasoning' or something."

He got up and carefully removed a glass vase he'd been carrying in his backpack, taking off the multiple layers of bubble wrap surrounding it, and popping a few of the air-filled half-spheres absently. He didn't notice the nurse outside poke her head in at the noise; he was too absorbed in his own thoughts (some things never change).

He went over to the sink near Kiku's bed, and filled the vase about half full with water and placed the branch of cherry blossoms in gently.

"I gotta go now, Kiku," he said, still facing away from the inert figure on the bed. "My boss has me running all over the place trying to help people…he's afraid of Ivan." He shivered, "But I can't really blame him for that. That guy's creepy, and he's bothering everyone more than ever about 'becoming one with Mother Russia,' or whatever. Anyway, get better soon. I'll be back later. Think I'll bring some more of these flowers; they're kinda awesome."

He turned back to face the bed again.

"When you wake up, I'll help however I can…I hope we're still friends, Kiku." The last sentence was practically a whisper; unusual for America.

Retrieving his backpack and zipping it closed, he left quietly, glancing back over his shoulder at Kiku as he reached the doorway.

Several months later, when Honda Kiku awoke, his room was filled with cherry blossoms.

* * *

America returned a few days later, his arrival was announced, _again_, by a near-constant stream of ringing.

England was feeling a bit better by then, and was sitting in the drawing room reading and having a cup of tea, so he managed to answer the door in time to prevent any major damage from being dealt to his abused doorbell.

"Why don't you just use the damn key?" He asked irritably as he opened the door.

"Cuz' I can't," America replied, words almost unidentifiable, due to the large McDonald's bag held in his mouth. He was carrying another huge cardboard box, and toting the same backpack. He appeared to have been using his elbow to ring the bell. England stood aside quickly, and America moved past, dumping the box on the couch again, then sitting next to it.

"I brought more stuff!" He reported brightly.

"Obviously." England said, rolling his eyes, "What did you bring?"

"More of that nasty tea you like so much, tissues, aspirin, McDonald's, ice cream, and more McDonald's, so I don't die while I'm here." Arthur scowled.

"How long are you staying, If I may ask?" Alfred shrugged.

"Dunno, probly a couple days. 'Till my boss says to go somewhere else. Hey, can I use your washing machine? I haven't been home for a couple weeks."

"I can tell." Arthur said, wrinkling his nose. He had noticed that the American didn't exactly smell like a basket of roses.

Alfred took that as a yes. "Great! Have you eaten yet? I brought plenty of hamburgers."

"Yes, I have. But thank you for offering." He said; he wouldn't have eaten even if he was hungry; He was of the opinion that McDonald's was a disgusting abomination in the world of cuisine.

"Suit yourself." America said, before promptly stuffing his face with the contents of the bag he'd been carrying.

Arthur went to make a pot of tea and take another dose of aspirin (he'd had a couple about six hours ago) and was surprised that he was not interrupted for some random and inane conversation. After he was finished creating the delicious drink, he sat down at his kitchen table, sipping tea periodically while attempting to concentrate on some documents his boss had sent over, (With apologies for disturbing him. They were apparently very important, and couldn't wait) between sneezing and coughing every other minute.

After trying to read them for about half an hour with little success, he got up to go see what America was doing. Destroying his house, most likely.

He walked into the drawing room to find America sprawled on the couch, surrounded by fast food wrappers, sound asleep. England smiled fondly at him. He was so much less annoying when he was asleep. And he looked so innocent…he almost reminded Arthur of when Alfred was little, when England was his big brother, before America had left him.

The smile left his face, and he scowled. He hated thinking about that.

He went and retrieved a blanket from the linen closet and covered America with it. Hesitating for a moment, he leaned over and kissed Alfred's forehead, like he used to when he would tuck the boy in at night.

He proceeded to clean up the disgustingly greasy food wrappers Alfred had left everywhere, grumbling quietly to the Flying Mint Bunny and Unicorn as he worked. After that was done, he sat in the armchair near the couch and attempted to read Jane Eyre for a while, before slowly nodding off.

* * *

Alfred continued to return to Arthur's house on a regular basis; England's economy improved rapidly with the assistance of America's boss, but by then it had become routine for America to stop by at least once a week, so they just continued on with the practice.

* * *

It was a sunny afternoon and England was trying to have a cup of tea and read Pride and Prejudice, but was having a hard time concentrating because America had taken to kicking the couch they were sitting on repeatedly.

"Stop that, you bloody git!" England snapped, having had quite enough.

"I'm bored, Iggy!" He whined.

"Well that isn't my fault, now is it? And don't call me Iggy." he retorted.

America got up, grumbling, and sulked out of the room. England shook his head irritably and returned to reading. He was left alone in blissful silence for a while, until America came bursting back into the room wearing a flamboyant pirate hat and brandishing an old sword.

"Arrgh! Avast, there, me hearties, raise the sails! Wey anchor, ye scurvey dogs!" he yelled, sweeping the sword in an arc that only barely missed England's floor lamp.

"Put that down, you idiot!" England screeched, standing up and snatching the sword from America's hand,

"You'll break something! And who gave you permission to look through my things?" The sword and the hat were definitely his original ones, from his pirate days.

America shrugged. "I found them in the closet when I was looking to see if there was anything to do around here. There were two of them!" He retrieved a second sword from the hall, brandishing it at England "En Garde, Iggy!"

"No." Said Arthur flatly, carefully leaning the sword against the armchair, "They're antiques, not toys, you wanker; we are not going to risk damaging them simply because you are_ bored_. And don't speak frog in my house." He turned around, and then added, with a smirk, "Besides, You wouldn't stand a chance against me."

"Yes I would!" America countered indignantly. England snorted. "C'mon, just try me, old man. You'll see! I'm a hero, and heroes always win!"

Wanting to teach America a lesson in humility (Not that he'd remember it later) England changed his mind, picked up the sword and turned back to face America.

"All right," he said to a rather surprised Alfred, "On your guard!"

They began circling each other slowly, England adopting the stance of a seasoned veteran. America's posture was completely off, he noticed. This would be easy.

He lunged experimentally, only intending to tap the other nation lightly with blade; he needed to be careful; these swords were real. He was not overly concerned, however; He was a master swordsman (or had been, once upon a time); he could control this blade as if it were an extension of his body, America, on the other hand, was so inept that he could never dream of causing any damage to England. Or that's what Arthur thought.

To his surprise, steel met with steel as Alfred parried his blow. He looked at the younger nation's face; America was smirking.

"Where did you learn that?" England asked rather irritably as they circled once more.

"Prussia taught me. All I had to do was call him 'Oh Awesome One' for a day. It was worth it, even though everyone knows I'm way more awesome than he is, because I'm a hero, and her-" England cut America off suddenly by going on the offensive, executing a series of quick maneuvers while advancing toward Alfred to force him toward the wall. The blows were quickly stopped, but it was obvious that the younger nation was at a disadvantage in terms of skill.

England considered disarming America right then, but he was actually having rather a good time, and so decided to draw out their little 'battle' for a while longer.

They continued their sparring for a few minutes, Alfred still blithely cheerful, even though he obviously couldn't win. Arthur backed Alfred up against the wall, and was, by this point, bored. He decided it was time to end this, and prepared to execute the tricky little maneuver that would relieve Alfred of the ancient sword.

Suddenly, America lunged forward, forcing England to step back a bit; to the elder nation's surprise, America continued to go on the offensive, moving forward quickly with a challenging smile on his face.

England gritted his teeth. There was no way he was letting this little prat beat him in a sword fight. He parried expertly, and began to drive Alfred back the way he had just come; he could see the younger nation was flustered slightly; England had started using some of the more complicated tricks, and America couldn't keep up. England smirked. He could taste victory.

Once again, England forced the American back until there was no room to go any further, but this time did not hesitate to disarm the younger nation, following up by swiftly moving forward to put the sword against Alfred's throat.

And America looked at him.

And England froze.

His reactions had been almost automatic; he had spent so many years fighting that it was natural to him to move in like this after he had won, to assert dominance; to destroy any semblance of his opponent's power.

He hadn't been thinking about how this would look, how closely it would resemble another situation.

Only before it was muskets.

And before it wasn't just a game.

And when it was over last time, he had lost something.

And just by looking at the expression on Alfred's face, he knew the other country was thinking the exact same thing; that even he, who couldn't read the atmosphere if his life depended on it, recognized this.

"Why?" It was barely audible; for a second, England didn't even realize he's said it.

America looked at him with sky-blue eyes. For once, they were serious.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Arthur." The voice was quiet, filled with a need for him to understand, almost desperate, "I wasn't trying to. I just…I needed my freedom. I needed my chance to grow up, to be everything I could be. You showed me so much, so many wonderful things to experience; but you wouldn't let me try them on my own. You wouldn't let me make my own mistakes. I know you were only trying to protect me. I know you loved me, and I hurt you. And I'm sorry for that."

He paused for a moment, apparently steeling himself, then continued, "But I don't regret it. You were always telling me to grow up; well I did. I'm free, and I wouldn't give it up for anything. It's like joy. It's like flying with nothing to make you stop, forever and ever. You know what that's like, don't you Arthur? How wonderful that feeling is?" He stopped, continuing to stare steadily at England. Neither moved for a moment.

Yes, England knew. It was the smell of the ocean as you sped along with the wind in your sails, knowing nothing could harm you. It was the adrenaline of battle, the joy of victory, the thrill of ultimate power. And it was in love, too. Maybe that was why Arthur had been so unwilling to let go of Alfred, because with that, he not only lost that boy he had come to care so much for, but also a little of the freedom that came with loving someone, and having them love you in return. Maybe that's why it had hurt so much for so long afterwards.

He nodded slowly.

Suddenly, the phone rang. America jumped, and England quickly withdrew the sword he had almost forgotten he was still holding, and ran over to pick up the receiver

"Hullo?" he said mechanically, understandably distracted, then listened. He scowled. "It's for you." He told America. The younger nation hurried over and took the phone.

"Hey! What? No, everything's fine, Mr. President. Sure, sure. He did? That's great! I'll catch the next flight, sir! Peace out!" He hung up quickly, then ran over to the couch, grabbing his backpack and hurrying toward the door.

"Gotta go, Iggy! That was really fun; we should do it again sometime! Bye!" He called, as he raced out the door.

England shook his head in disbelief as he stared after the other nation. How he went from serious to ridiculously childish in such a short amount of time would never cease to amaze the British man.

* * *

Alfred was fidgeting impatiently the entire way over, playing with his jacket, tapping his foot, opening and closing the window. It always took too long- but especially today.

As soon as they landed, he raced out of the airport, nearly forgetting his backpack on the plane. He ran through the streets, jostling people as he barreled forward. Alfred checked the time on his watch; only an hour and a half left, he needed to hurry and get there-

Ooooh! Pretty!

He skidded to a halt in front of a shop whose windows were full of carefully folded paper animals in various colors. Fascinated, he walked inside; looking at all the different styles and sizes as he wandered through the store. He stopped in wonder when he reached the back wall.

It was the most awesome thing he had ever seen in his life.

More awesome than his collection of football jerseys.

The entire wall was covered with rows upon rows of paper cranes. They extended from floor to ceiling; their bright colors overlapped each other to create an astonishing display. It was truly a sight to behold.

Alfred stood, mesmerized for a moment, then turned around when he heard the shopkeeper speaking to him. Of course, Alfred didn't understand a word he said, but the guy was gesturing at the wall, so Alfred assumed it was about the cranes. He nodded enthusiastically.

Struck with sudden inspiration, he pointed at the wall, and then took out some of the foreign currency his boss had given him from the envelope labeled "Japan". The man nodded, seemingly understanding, and beckoned him over to a wall full of shelves, picking up a thick package full of small squares of paper. There was also a page full of some sort of directions and a bag of strings and beads. He handed the package to Alfred.

Alfred was confused. What was this for? He had thought the man would just give him the cranes, and he could take them to Kiku. He didn't really know what they were for, but he figured they would make a pretty good present. He was about to try to explain to the man again, when he noticed the time and remembered he was on a schedule.

Grabbing some money out of the envelope, he handed it to the man, hoping it would be enough. Judging by the man's face, it was. Shoving the pad of paper in his backpack, he waved, and ran out the door. He'd never been very good with all that currency exchange stuff anyway.

Sprinting down the crowded streets, Alfred didn't stop again until he was nearly at the entrance to the hospital. He was nervous; would Kiku be angry? Would he-?

The flowers!

Stopping abruptly for the second time that day, he made a lightning fast detour to the flower stand he frequented, presenting the cashier with the correct amount this time (he'd been here often enough to know how much the flowers were supposed to cost) she handed them over with a smile. He flashed her a brilliant grin in return, then continued his race through the building.

He nodded at the staff when he finally reached the right floor and passed the desk, having been here enough times to remember the room number.

When he reached the door he stopped to compose himself. The same sense of apprehension he'd felt the first day gnawed at his mind, and he was unsure of whether or not he should continue.

Alfred took a deep breath. He could do this. _**He was the hero**_. Slowly, he opened the door and entered the room.

Kiku was standing with his back to the door, looking out the window at the setting sun, calmly observing the serene beauty of its descent.

"Hello, America-san." He said placidly, without turning around.

"Hi, Ki- Japan!" Alfred replied nervously, his voice a little squeakier than usual. He felt like he was about to be punished for making a mess of his room or something.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment before moving to replace some of the older blossoms in one of the vases with the new ones.

"Did you bring all of these, America-san?" Japan said quietly, watching America's reflection in the window.

"Um, yeah, guess I did," he said, laughing a little in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension. It didn't work. "I, uh, thought they were pretty awesome, so I guess I ended up bringing a lot of them."

There was a pause. "Domo arigato gozaimasu." Japan said, nodding.

"You're welcome." Replied America. He'd finally figured out that meant 'thank you' on his last visit here.

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence once more, until Kiku suddenly turned around and let out a sigh. "Why are you here, America-san?"

"I-I just, I mean, I wanted to, um, to… I…are you mad at me?" He blurted out, giving up on trying to answer the question.

"Which do you mean? Are my people angry with yours, or am I upset with you? " Kiku inquired. Before Alfred could answer, he continued, "To the former…no. No, they are not. You won, and that is all there is to it. They are grateful for the help your government has provided. As for myself…did you truly expect that I would not be?" He met Alfred's eyes, and America thought he saw a glimmer of…something in them; unusual, since they were normally kept carefully blank.

"Well, I-I…no." America admitted, casting blue irises to the tiled floor. "I just…I thought that if I came…if I tried…" he let out a frustrated sigh, "Look Kiku, this is really hard …I-I'm sorry." His eyes snapped back up to meet the brown ones again as the apology left his lips. "I don't know what to think about what happened yet, it's all really confusing, and that psycho commie won't stop breathing down my neck and- I'm getting off topic, aren't I?"

"What I was trying to say, was that I'm sorry about what happened to you and your people; I think we both agree that people dying and getting hurt really sucks, but, but I'm going to do whatever I can to help you. I'm really sorry. And I don't expect you to forgive me right away or anything, but… could you let me at least try and make it up to you?" He looked away again, question hanging in the air hopefully, shuffling his feet.

Kiku studied the other nation for a moment, contemplating his answer. Then slowly, he nodded. "All right, America-san," he said softly. America looked up, a relieved smile on his face.

Kiku sat back against the pillows on the hospital bed, and they lapsed into silence once more. Though this time, it wasn't quite as uncomfortable as before; there was simply nothing more that needed to be said.

America fidgeted slightly after the silence dragged on for a while, "Are you hungry? I could go find something for us to eat," the American blurted out. Kiku nodded in consent, and Alfred left the room to find food.

He came back later bearing a tray overloaded with food.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I got some of everything." He said, by way of explanation. He set the tray on the table designed to be positioned in such a way that the person occupying the bed was able to eat, then proceeded to rummage around in his backpack looking for something, causing a few of the items to tumble out onto the floor.

Kiku watched as a package of colorful paper fall out, "What is that, America-san?" he asked calmly.

"Huh?" said Alfred, looking up at Kiku. He had found what he was looking for (A squashed McDonald's bag) and followed the Japanese man's gaze to the colorful package on the floor in front of him. "Oh, that." He shrugged. "Dunno. Bought it from a guy in a shop with a bunch of paper animals and stuff. There was this wall filled with a lots of paper birds, and they were cool looking, so I thought I'd bring them with me to go with your flowers, but he gave me this instead. I was kinda in a hurry, so I didn't get to figure out what it was."

"May I see it?" Kiku asked. Alfred nodded and handed it to him. "Ah. It is a Senbazuru set. He thought you wished to make paper cranes of your own. There is enough paper here to make a thousand. Have you heard the story of the thousand paper cranes, America-san?" He asked. America shook his head. He was intrigued; he had always loved the stories Iggy used to tell him when he was little about knights saving damsels in distress and slaying dragons; it was where he had learned to be a hero (well, from there and comic books).

"When I was young, there was a belief among my people that cranes were holy creatures, and lived a thousand years; so if someone were to fold a thousand cranes out of paper, using the art of origami, the gods would be pleased, and grant that person a wish."

"That's so heroic and awesome!" Exclaimed Alfred, "Can you show me how to make them?"

"O-of course," said Kiku, startled by the nation's sudden enthusiasm. He carefully opened the package, showing America all of the precise folds needed to create the tiny representation of the majestic crane. Alfred was fascinated. He tried (and failed) several times to fold the delicate paper, but before he could succeed, a nurse stepped in, bowed nervously and announced that visiting hours were over. Japan translated for America, who quickly gathered his things.

"I'm going to find a hotel to stay at; hopefully there's someone who can understand me. I'll see you tomorrow, Kiku!" he said cheerfully as he exited the room. He paused just outside the door, looking back.

"Oh, and Kiku?" he said, giving him a half smile, "Thanks."

* * *

_Why did I just do that?_

_It wasn't as if I owed him anything. _

_In fact, he had almost killed me. I shouldn't have let him stay. _

The longer Japan though about it, however, the more inclined he was to give the flamboyant nation a chance. Alfred had come here of his own accord. He had apologized voluntarily; and had said everything with an air of humility, true sincerity. For once, he hadn't been quite so oblivious, or so much of an idiot.

For once it had just been plain old Alfred, devoid of the annoying glitz and glory he tended to surround himself with.

It seemed like he was truly sorry; like he really felt remorse for all the lives that had been lost.

Japan had not forgiven him yet, of course, it was much too soon. But he saw no harm in letting the other nation try to earn his forgiveness.

Kiku was not attempting to extort anything out of America; he was not dangling forgiveness in front of the other nation as bait so he could get something.

He wanted to forgive him. He really did.

But he just…he couldn't.

Not yet.

* * *

After Alfred left, England simply stood there for a moment. He then went to pick up America's sword, and the hat he had discarded as he had raced out of the door. He stared at the objects in his hands, as if unsure of what he should do with them. Then he slowly began climbing his stairs to the storage closet on his second floor. He opened the door to find total chaos, as Alfred was wont to create in any of England's normally impeccable rooms. Discarding the items on top of a box full of other memorabilia from his…ah…_colorful_ youth, he turned around to open an ancient desk that was in serious need of dusting. In the desk's single drawer there was an extremely old collection of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. England picked it up and turned to page 704, where there was an old ornate key, which he proceeded to remove. Replacing the book and leaving the closet, he climbed a second flight of stairs and walked down two more hallways before reaching a nondescript door, which he unlocked.

Of course he had kept everything. How could he not? Much as he was loath to admit it, the boy had been special to him. In a way that no one before or after had ever been.

The room was filled with paraphernalia that had belonged to America when he was little. After that night, England had gathered it all up, unceremoniously thrown everything into this room, and locked the door. It was the only room in his house that was a complete disaster through no fault of Alfred's.

He had not wanted to remember. Directly after the incident, he had considered throwing the key away, so that he never had to see anything that reminded him of that boy ever again, but something inside him had compelled him to keep it.

He walked through the narrow room, whose only source of light was a small window, carefully picking items up off of the floor where they had been discarded, and placing them against the walls. He should really put some shelves in here.

At the back of the room were the items he had been simultaneously looking for, and dreading to locate. The ones he had thrown in first.

The deep scarlet fabric had faded somewhat, and he doubted that the musket would ever fire again. But they were intact.

It hurt. Oh, lord, did it hurt. It hurt to recognize what he had been trying to deny for so long.

He hadn't wanted it to be his fault. He had wanted to blame it on Alfred; that the boy, in his teenage foolishness, had begun this idiotic act of rebellion, a simple defiance of authority that had ended with England's pain.

But with the question that he had been so afraid to ask finally out in the open, and with Alfred having answered, there was no longer a reprieve from the truth.

It was his fault.

He had driven Alfred to it; he had stifled him, been unwilling to expose the boy to the horror that was life, and, much as he hated to admit it, he had used him, something he had always tried to deny. It ate at him, now that he finally had to face it; guilt, long-buried, welled up through the cracks in his conscience and flooded his soul. He had used that innocent little boy with the bright blue eyes for his own gain, and in so doing, he had hurt the child. The only person who had ever given him fulfillment, happiness; he had hurt America.

And because of that, he had lost him.

A shaking hand reached out to touch the wood of the gun. He shut his eyes. He could feel the rain, cold, hard, beating down on his back. He could taste the mud in his mouth, and hear Alfred's words; _You used to be so big_.

He hadn't meant to hurt him either.

Tears ran down his face.

And he wondered if 170 years ago, on that dark, cold battlefield, the child that had, at that instant, been a child no longer, had cried with him.

* * *

America continued to stay in Japan, visiting Kiku in the hospital every day (excluding the day he left to go home and get more clothes).

At first, Alfred was, per usual, an endless stream of chatter. He talked about fast food, the economy (but only when he was extremely bored), new movies he had seen, his theories on UFO's and aliens, airplanes, his conflict with Russia (he seemed rather paranoid about the other nation, in Kiku's opinion), theories about saving the world (mostly involving superheroes), and England, or 'Iggy' as he called the other nation.

Japan would sit and listen to him, nodding and occasionally replying to a question he was asked. Kiku did not have much to add, however, and so, eventually, Alfred ran out of things to say.

When this happened, Alfred began to leave the room more; returning with things shopkeepers usually sold to gullible tourists. And flowers. He was constantly replenishing the cherry blossoms that still filled the room.

He was currently preoccupied with a collection of Sudoku puzzles; once Japan had explained to him how they were supposed to work, it quickly became his favorite thing to do when he had nothing to say.

Japan had drifted off to sleep after Alfred had brought him lunch earlier, and had been having some very odd dreams about involving Alfred and aliens from Mars, when, suddenly, the dream shifted.

_They had been firing at each other for what seemed like ages, though besides his first shot, they were never able to cause much real damage to each other._

No, not this. Not again. Wake up.

_Suddenly, his enemy was out of bullets. The man promptly charged him; and in response, he pulled out his katana, preparing for close combat._

He didn't need to relive this.

_The other had a sword as well. But he made no move to pull it from its sheath. This confused the first man; were they not going to continue the fight?_

Here it comes.

_The man suddenly stopped in front of him. He was wary. His enemy still held the gun; it was large enough to be formidable without bullets. _

_Cold blue met brown. The other took_ _out a handgun. He made to grab his firearm again._

_Bang. He dropped the sword. His hand felt as though it was on fire. _

_Ignoring the pain, he picked up the gun, but his adversary was quick; punching him in the face, then kicking his legs out from under him. He felt the gun yanked from his hand._

_He looked up._

_Ice blue. _

_A shot rang out again. Point blank, in the chest. It would have been enough. But there was still unspent fury in the eyes of the man standing above him. He aimed again. Fired again. _

_And they were staring at each other for a moment. And he thought the other might shoot him once more, helpless as he was. But the blue eyes looked away. And the enemy turned and left._

Kiku awoke with a start, and Alfred looked up from the puzzle he was currently working on.

"You okay?" he asked. Japan nodded, and America went happily back to Sudoku. Japan sighed.

America was so oblivious.

They sat there quietly for a while, with America concentrating on Sudoku, and Japan staring out the window. The sun was beginning to set.

"America-san," he said quietly, and Alfred looked up, "…did you truly think that there was no other way?"

Alfred looked startled; he had not been expecting the question.

"I dunno…" he started slowly, "I was mad at you and…I don't know." He looked down at the puzzles. "I…ask me again, later, alright? Everything's so busy right now…ask me later." They both knew it was an excuse, but Japan nodded anyways, and they lapsed into silence. America, however, did not return to his puzzle.

"Wanna hear a story?" he asked out of the blue a while later.

"What?" Japan said, confused. Where had this come from?

"Well, you told me one, and I just remembered this story Iggy told me when I was little. Always liked it. Let me tell it, pleeeeaaaase?" America added his signature kicked puppy look for good measure. Japan gave in and nodded.

"A long time ago, in England, 'cause for some reason this kind of crap always happens there, there was this King, and his name was…Uther I think. Well, maybe. But his last name was Pendragon. Anyway, there was this girl he liked a lot, but she didn't like him. Her name was Igraine. Weird, huh? All these people had strange names. He liked her so much he got really sick and almost died 'cause he couldn't have her."

America snorted. "How stupid is that? How d'you love someone so much you die without them? I don't get it. But, anyways, there was this wizard dude named Merlin, and he told the king he could get him the girl if he let him have his first born son. The guy was so desperate he agreed. People'll do weird shit for girls, I guess."

"So Merlin did his magic-thing, and made the king look like a guy the girl loved before, so she married him. And they had a kid. Named Arthur."

"Think that's where Iggy got his name, but _he _says Pendragon took it from _him_. Suuuuuure. Anyway, Merlin came and took the kid. And then the King died. Sucks, huh? But before he died, he told all the important people in his court that they had to obey his son."

" 'Cept he was kinda stupid, 'cause no one knew who Arthur was. So they all started fighting about who got to be King. Well I guess Merlin knew it'd happen, so he took Artie away on purpose, to a place where he could learn to be king without getting killed by the politicians. Those dudes were pretty scary. Sounds like one of my elections." He laughed loudly at his own joke, then continued, "So Artie grew up with a knight named Ector, and his son Kay, and learned all of that important stuff you need to know to be a hero, like me!"

"When Artie was old enough, Merlin told this important church guy to call a feast on Easter at this old church. So all of the politicians showed up, and when they got there, they saw this big-ass rock with a sword in it. The rock had writing on it that said that whoever got the sword out of it was king. So they all tried, but they couldn't do it."

"So the priest said there was gonna be a tournament, to find people to try to pull the sword out of the rock. And Arthur and Kay and Ector showed up. Arthur was Kay's squire, which Iggy said is like a servant or something. But he didn't mind. So before the fight, he had to get all of Kay's crap ready. But Kay was a dumbass, and left his sword at the house. Artie went to get it, but the house was locked, so instead he took the sword from the rock, without knowing what it was. He took it to Kay, who did know, so Kay thought he was King. But Ector said Arthur was. So Ector and Kay pledged allegiance to him, like they do to my flag, and then told the priest guy."

"Well the priest guy was excited, so he called all the people to watch, and told Arthur to put the sword back and take it out again. But the politicians didn't think he could be king, 'cause he was a kid. So he put the sword back again, and everyone tried to take it, again. But the only one who could do it was Artie. So they declared him King, and he was an awesome, heroic King. The end." America finished. He had been gesticulating wildly, and looked back at Kiku to find that he was again, asleep. He smiled. It had worked, then. He was so heroic. He sat back in the uncomfortable chair, and started working on his puzzles again.

* * *

Arthur waited impatiently for Alfred's return; they needed to talk.

Alfred did not get to just run out of the house like that after what he had said. He had to come back and talk to Arthur, because, dammit, it was important. _He_ was important.

So Arthur was, to say the least, irritated when the other nation didn't come back the next week. Or the week after that. Or the week after that.

Against his better judgment, he started to worry about the oaf. What if there was something wrong with Alfred? Or what if the idiot had done something incredibly stupid, like provoke that mad Russian? He would _kill_ Ivan if he had as much as touched Alfred. Not that he cared, or anything. Only because Alfred was a superpower and his economy was important to World trade.

On the fourth week, growing rather desperate, (No, not desperate. Rightfully concerned. Yes, that was it.) and not knowing where Alfred was to contact him, he resorted to calling the younger nation's boss, who informed him that Alfred was in Japan, helping Kiku.

Oh.

Well, then.

It was certainly good to see that Alfred was taking a little more responsibility for his actions. Definitely a positive development, that he was in Japan. With Kiku. Instead of here. With Arthur.

No, he was most definitely not jealous of Japan (whom he had taken to calling _That Nation_ in his head).

Not jealous at all.

* * *

After America had been there for around a month, they settled into a routine; America showed up the second the doors opened, usually with flowers. He would chatter on for a while enthusiastically about whatever was new, with Japan reacting appropriately, and then they would be quiet. America would use the silence to work on his puzzles or whatever other new thing he happened to have.

One afternoon, during the second or third week he was there, America had suddenly asked what Japan's favorite food was. Japan had answered, startled (was he dreaming, or had America just asked him a question that had nothing to do with how heroic or awesome he was?). He had wondered if the other was feeling alright. When he inquired as to the purpose of the question, Alfred simply shrugged and smiled, going back to his book.

The next day, he did it again, but instead of falling silent after the first question, he asked another, and another, until he had Japan actually talking about his life and experiences. And America was actually _listening_. In fact, he seemed positively enthralled.

He supposed it was rather…flattering, that the American had taken such an interest in his culture and history. He also noticed that sometimes the other got rather bored listening to him, but made a conscious effort to keep paying attention. He didn't say anything about it, but it was appreciated.

Furthermore, America actually seemed to remember some of it, because he started coming back with Japan's favorite types of foods, and buying different types of flowers so they could be in Kiku's favorite color. It was sweet.

On the seventh of February, while Alfred was getting lunch, the physicians told Kiku he could finally go home. Kiku relayed the news to Alfred, and after the American's initial outburst of ecstatic excitement for his friend, he went and talked to the doctors, saying something vague about transportation when Kiku asked him about it. He came back and reported that there wouldn't be any transports available until the eleventh, so he'd unfortunately have to wait to go home.

Kiku wasn't stupid. The eleventh was his birthday, and since Alfred had asked him what he'd wanted last week (Kiku hadn't given him a straight answer, and Alfred had pestered him the rest of the day) he knew something was going on. He didn't say anything, though; it was nice of Alfred to want to do something for him, even if he wasn't exactly fond of birthday parties.

In the days leading up to Kiku's release from the hospital, he noticed the American was acting rather odd. He was ridiculously hyper (even more so than usual) and almost constantly had candy or soda in his hand. In addition to that, he had developed large, dark circles under his eyes that suggested lack of sleep. Kiku was worried about him, but when he expressed his concern, Alfred had shrugged him off with a high-pitched laugh and had told him he was fine.

On the eleventh, however, Alfred had failed to show up and accompany Kiku home. As much as Kiku wanted to deny it, he was hurt by this. The little Asian spent the entire ride home trying to think up excuses for why the American wasn't with him, in an attempt to placate himself. It was true that Alfred had spent every waking moment with him for the last month and a half, so he really couldn't complain, but, he'd been looking forward to having his company at his time of release, and the fact that he wasn't there hurt. The transport made good time, though, and they arrived at Kiku's house slightly earlier than expected.

Kiku opened the door dejectedly, went inside, and stopped dead in his tracks.

His entire house (as far as he could tell) was absolutely covered in paper cranes of various sizes and colors. They had been carefully attached to the walls, and littered the floors; Alfred had even managed to get some of them on the ceiling.

What really caught his attention, however, was the small table in the middle of the room, where were two small paper cranes sitting side by side, one red and one blue. Kiku went over and picked up the red one, which was addressed to him (although he almost couldn't tell) on the right wing. On the left wing, in cramped, tiny, handwriting, Alfred had scribbled a note.

Happy Birthday, Kiku!

I made 2,000 of these things! Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, you said if someone made 1,000, they got a wish, so I made 1,000 for you and 1,000 for me! Make a wish, Kiku!

-The Hero

Just then, the door opened and Kiku turned around to see a procession of people filing in, led by Alfred, who was carrying an enormous cake in his arms, and holding a package of candles between his teeth. He grinned when he saw Kiku, and set the cake down on the table.

"Hey, Kiku! Didn't think you'd be back so soon. We were gonna surprise you, but I guess this means we get to start the party sooner! C'mon guys!"

Kiku was immediately assaulted by a wave of people congratulating him on his recovery and wishing him a happy birthday. Alfred had already used his kitchen to make enough food for an army; it was a strange mixture of everyone's favorite dishes, and soon people were milling about, eating and talking. Kiku spoke to his boss briefly; the man wished him a happy birthday and had assured him that he would not be needed immediately, and that he should rest some more, before Alfred boisterously insisted that they have cake. It was quite good, actually (despite the fact that it looked radioactive); Alfred himself had multiple servings before coming to sit next to Kiku, who was seated quietly on a sofa in the back of the room.

"Hey, Birthday Boy! Why're you sitting over here all by yourself?" He asked cheerily, as he sat down beside Kiku.

Without giving the other nation a chance to answer, he continued, speeding up with every word "Isn't great that everyone could make it? Well, almost everyone, I guess; I called Iggy but he didn't answer and he never called me back, oh well I guess he's busy so did you make your wish yet I already made mine but I can't tell you what it is because then it won't come true sorry about your back window but I had to get in somehow I already called the guy to come and fix it didyouknowIhaven'!"

He shoved another slice of cake into Kiku's hands, and then jumped up and went to retrieve his fifth glass of soda.

Kiku sat there, frozen for a second, trying to figure out everything the American had just said. From what he gathered, England wasn't here (that was odd. He and the other nation usually got along with each other), he had a broken window somewhere in his house, Alfred had already used the blue crane to make a wish, and he hadn't gone to sleep in four days. He supposed that explained the other nation's near-constant sugar intake, but why hadn't he slept in the first place?

The party ran until well after the sunset, with Kiku eventually getting up to interact with the others (others being Germany and Italy); he noticed that the smaller nation was being even clingier than usual, and that Germany seemed to be constantly be fighting a blush. He supposed that meant that they were finally together, which was quite adorable; he would need to remember to draw them a doujinshi now that they were official.

At around nine, Alfred had cleared everyone, apparently noticing that Kiku was getting tired. After the last person had left, he went to sit next to Kiku again, who was occupying the same couch he was in before. Though this time, the red, white and blue nation seemed dead on his feet; apparently his sugar rush was finally gone.

"Hey…Kiku…" He said sleepily, stifling a yawn, "did you have fun?" he slurred.

"Yes, America-san. Arigato." Kiku replied. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "America-san, why did you not sleep for four days? That is not good for your health."

"What? Oh…I had to finish the cranes…they took longer than I thought." He muttered, practically asleep now. His head slid to rest on Kiku's shoulder. He stiffened, but made no move to reposition Alfred.

"Oh…thank you, America-san, that was very…thoughtful of you." America nodded against his shoulder.

"One more thing. What did you wish for, Jones-san?" He figured it was alright for the other nation to tell him; it was probably completely implausible anyway.

Alfred was already in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness, and had to concentrate to answer the question, "…I wished…everything…could be back to the way it was before…so that we could be friends again…" he muttered.

Kiku had been right. His wish was implausible. It was juvenile. It was ridiculous. It was…the sweetest thing he'd ever heard.

He smiled softly, and then, blushing madly, gently moved Alfred so that his head was in his lap. He made no move to get up and clean the house, and eventually both were sleeping peacefully.

* * *

America stayed with Kiku until the beginning of May; he wouldn't leave until he was absolutely sure that Kiku was able to take care of himself. Japan couldn't really say he minded.

After that night, Kiku couldn't bring himself to stay angry with Alfred anymore. In fact, he found himself feeling quite the opposite.

It felt…almost wrong, falling for someone who nearly killed you. But Alfred had been so considerate and caring for the last few months and had shown him a soft, sweet side Japan had never seen before.

His nightmares became less frequent, replaced by warm dreams of Alfred and him talking together, or taking walks in the park, or –he blushed thinking about it– at their wedding.

Of course these dreams had little foundation in reality. Alfred did nothing to suggest that he had any desire to be more than friends; at first Kiku had thought that it might be because he was seeing England; he certainly spoke about the other nation often enough. But when he asked America about it he laughed, and said England would probably stone him to death with some of his scones if he ever heard him say that.

Which just made it all the more frustrating that the other nation was completely oblivious to the subtle things that Kiku attempted to do to let him know how he felt. How he looked at him differently, how he smiled more when the other nation was about.

Still, he didn't- couldn't- give up hoping that Alfred would catch on if he kept trying.

He could be patient. He was good at that.

* * *

England was not awoken by the sun on May eighteenth. He was, instead, woken by the constant ringing of the doorbell he had not heard since December of last year.

The fact that he had, indeed, missed the bloody idiot (even if he wouldn't admit it) did nothing to calm him down as he marched to the front door and threw it open.

"Alfred! " He practically yelled, "What the bloody fuck are you waking me up for at seven in the morning on a bloody Saturday? What-"

"Iggy!" Alfred said excitedly, completely ignoring the question, "Get dressed! I have something to show you. It's really awesome, you have to come and see! Hurry!" And he rushed off again, in the direction of England's backyard.

England groaned, and rubbed his face with his hands, resigning himself to unfortunate fate of getting up. He had been looking forward to sleeping in this morning, after an absolutely horrendous week at the office. It seemed that was not going to happen.

He trudged back upstairs, muttering about 'that damn American' as he got dressed as slowly as possible. Just as he was straightening his tie, he heard his doorbell being bombarded once again, and hurried down the stairs, opening the door a second time to a positively ecstatic Alfred.

"I was coming, you bloody-"He started irritably, but America grabbed his hand and pulled him down the steps.

"C'mon!" He said, slamming the door shut and practically dragging England toward his backyard.

Oh dear.

He definitely wasn't blushing.

And his palms weren't sweating.

And his heart wasn't racing.

_At all_.

England's estate was rather large; most of the outside was filled with elegant topiaries, trees, rosebushes, and fountains. But the backyard was simply a flat expanse of grass; he hadn't had the heart to change it. America used to fly kites there.

When they finally reached said field, England stopped short, his hand leaving America's.

It-

There-

What-

"Bloody Hell." He finally managed, "You…you…you landed a-a _plane_ in m-my _backyard_?"

"It's not just _any_ plane, Iggy," the American said, as if the British man was completely missing the point, "It's the GC-1A! This baby hasn't even been put on the market yet! But Globe Co. gave me one for free, 'cause I'm the hero!" Alfred was still sporting a grin that could rival the Cheshire cat's.

"Isn't he perfect?" He asked giddily as he all but skipped over to the aircraft, running his hand along one of the wings.

It was certainly very…_Alfred_. It was made almost entirely of chrome, with red, white, and blue accents adorning the wings and sides. Arthur highly doubted there was any other plane in existence as flashy as this one.

There were a thousand things to say running through his mind, most of them involving yelling at Alfred for landing a _sodding plane _in his _backyard_, but when he opened his mouth, the first thing that came out was,

"He? Aren't planes usually referred to as 'she'?" Although he didn't know why; it wasn't as if it were terribly important.

Alfred shrugged, "Yeah, but…I dunno. This one just felt like a guy to me. He doesn't have a name, yet, but that's not why I brought him. C'mon! We're going flying!" He ran back over to a once again stunned England, and pulled him into the cockpit.

"Can you fly it?" He asked incredulously, as he clicked his harness closed.

"Him. And 'course I can, all heroes fly planes! It's an _art,_ unlike your sissy ship sailing." He smirked at England, and the insult seemed to pull the older nation out of his shocked state.

"I'll have you know that sailing a ship requires a great deal of-"He began indignantly, but America shoved a pair of goggles on his head, and started checking the controls in front of him. Figuring it was better not to distract him, lest he regret it later because America had overlooked something that caused the plane to crash, he fell silent. Once the American was satisfied, Alfred pulled goggles over his own eyes.

When that was done, he grinned at Arthur, and then slowly and carefully began the takeoff maneuvers. It was fortunate that England had a very large backyard.

Arthur had never seen Alfred take so much care at anything he'd done before; all of America's movements were precise; the younger nation seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

Once they were in the air, the ground fell away rapidly; England looked out the window of the stuffy cockpit and gasped.

It was breathtaking.

His beautiful land was beneath them; with all of its fields and forests; his people quickly becoming invisible as they rose into the sky. As they leveled out and flew for a while, he saw his beloved London, with her many cars and flats and busses sprawled before them, and Big Ben towering above them all. He was so enthralled that he didn't realize that Alfred was speaking to him for a moment.

"…flew him across the pond. Had to get up really early, but it was worth it; Ocean's beautiful in the morning; all the blues and greens mixing like that." He looked out the window for a second, then said casually,

"I'm going to open the windows; keep him flying steady for me, will ya?"

"W-what?" Arthur stuttered, "I don't know how to-"

"It's easy!" America interjected, moving the copilot controls to match how his own were positioned.

"Here." He placed Iggy's hands at the points his had been in a moment before.

Was it England's imagination, or was the contact held for a moment longer than necessary?

"Now just don't move. It'll only take a sec." He said, switching control to the copilot's wheel. He opened the window on his side, then leaned over England to reach the other.

Bloody Hell, the wanker looked good.

He did not just think that.

The wind was whipping through the cockpit as America took the controls back.

If flying had been breathtaking before, it was positively heart-stopping now.

He felt as though they could simply fall through the air at any moment, spiral toward the ground though the freezing atmosphere. It was, at once, both a terrifying and exhilarating thought. He had not felt this alive since he sailed the oceans with the smell of the sea in his nose.

Or, no, he corrected himself. Since the last time America had looked at him the way he used to.

He glanced over at Alfred, who was beaming as the wind whipped through his blond hair. The American returned his gaze, and in that second he was more perfect, more heart-stoppingly, breath-takingly beautiful than anything below them; with eyes lit up in unrestrained joy at the moment, their surroundings, at the pure, unhampered _freedom_.

Aw, Hell.

Somewhere along the line, he had fallen in love with the idiot, hadn't he?

Well, fuck.

And after the least romantic of realizations ever Alfred opened his mouth and yelled something to Arthur over the noise.

"I wanted to show you, Iggy," his voice was still barely audible, although he was probably screaming, "This is why I left. This is what I was fighting for."

He smiled radiantly at England, and then slung his arm around Arthur's shoulders pulling him closer and making the smaller nation's heart flutter. "Hang on!" He shouted, and jerked the wheel sharply to the left.

Alfred laughed as the plane rolled over in the sky, and, despite the fact that he was terrified, Arthur (though he'd never admit it) smiled.

* * *

1954

Their relationship was not something that could be called normal; in fact, at times, it couldn't even be called voluntary. But they were happy enough, at least for now. How did this come to be you ask? A valid question considering China had never before spared Russia so much as a second glance unless there were territory to gain, while Russia was simply too busy surviving his long, merciless winters with vodka to think about something as luxurious as a relationship. In the last hundred years, however, the tables had turned, and Russia had saved China's life repeatedly- out of what could almost qualify as kindness- without demanding anything in return; so when he declared his psychotic love for his southern neighbor, China went against his better judgment and gave him a chance. Thus, their ungainly relationship loped into existence.

China's POV ~ * ~ * ~

"Why does he have to be so damn possessive, aru? Big stupid brute…" China muttered angrily as he soaped his sore body as gently as he could. "I'm too old to put up with this kind of rough treatment, aru." An unexpected flash of pain disrupted China's train of thought as he accidentally pressed a bruise he had overlooked earlier. Flinching, he craned his neck back as far as he could, in a futile attempt to see the bruised spot. Tsking in frustration, China noted that it was in times like these that he could almost say he hated Russia.

Giving up, China straightened up and stepped back into the stream of water to rinse off the soap suds that clung to his body. The hot water felt nice as it cascaded over his skin, relaxed his tense shoulders, and rinsed away his foul mood. China closed his eyes and tipped back his head to let the water run down his face. _I've had my fill of anger_, China decided as he evened out his breathing to the dull roar of the synthetic waterfall.

If he'd learned anything in the four thousand years that he'd lived, it was that anger never solved any problems; never led its recipient down a practical or desirable path. There was no such thing as righteous anger, he'd discovered; actions committed out of wrath always led to the same result, no matter how honorable the original intention. That wasn't to say anger was a useless feeling; it was an emotion like every other, and deserved to be experienced in full; denying anger meant you would never truly be able to resolve the discontent in your soul. It simply needed to be controlled and experienced in moderation, but, then again, that could be said about everything.

Keeping his eyes closed, China inhaled deeply, feeling his lungs fill with warm steam. The philosophy had served to distract him from his emotions, and he felt significantly calmer about the situation, even if he was still somewhat miffed at the prospect of having to face the Russian again so soon. He took several deep breaths to calm the new influx of irritation before reaching over and turning the water off. In one fluid movement, China swept the shower curtain aside and shivered as the cool air rushed in dissipating the steam. Grabbing the towel he set aside earlier, he quickly toweled dry before slipping into an embroidered shirt made of rich, crimson silk and black cotton pants. Grabbing another towel, he rubbed vigorously at his long hair in an attempt to dry it before it could drip onto the warm silk of his shirt.

After he was satisfied that his shirt was safe from the threat of water, he turned to the mirror on the wall and studied his face, while methodically pulling an ebony comb through his inky hair. The fact that he was no longer boiling with rage did _not_ mean he had forgiven Russia for taking liberties with his body, and the thought was reflected on his face in the form of an irritated scowl. Sighing, China slumped back against the walls and closed his eyes; such a blatant display of discontent-especially when directed towards his savior, benefactor- was almost shameful (and a little disappointing all things considered; he was China, the oldest nation in existence, one that took great pride in being able to control his emotions more than most would have thought possible).

Lowering the comb, he counted to ten in Chinese under his breath to suppress his indignation, and concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his face. Opening his eyes, he was pleased to find that the creases marring his feminine features had smoothed into a perfect, unreadable, porcelain mask, displaying no sign of malcontent- a good place to start crafting his desired facade. With practiced ease, China curved his lips into a seemingly natural smile and softened the harsh look in his eyes; from there, he adjusted small details until his face spoke of sincere love and compliance. Satisfied that his visage would not betray his less than sanguine mind-set, he opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom he shared with his forceful lover, Russia.

Russia's POV~ * ~ * ~

Ivan smiled sweetly as he leaned back against the bed and listened to the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. _Yao is probably fuming right about now_, he thought to himself with a small, well-meaning smirk (the one that tended to make even the manliest men piss their pants in fear). It made him feel accomplished when he pushed Yao's buttons until the dignified man would snap and show his true emotions. He knew it was a ridiculous and somewhat pointless thing to do- Yao would always resume his mask in a matter of minutes- but he just couldn't stop doing it. Ivan always felt euphoric when the small Asian let down his guard and graced him with a moment of genuine emotion. Problem was, it happened so rarely that Ivan couldn't help but thirst for more, even if the emotion directed at him was anger or hatred.

"What a strange relationship we have, da?" he said to no one in particular. "It's not that I don't love him, I do. I think I've made it clear too, da?"

It felt good, really good, to finally have the upper hand. To be the one who made the rules and called the shots, to be the one who had nothing to lose. For as long as he could remember, he had always been looking up at Yao; had always been hopelessly coveting him. The ancient nation used to seem like a god who walked in heaven's heights; completely untouchable by the mortal realm. In fact, there was a time when Yao's glory and riches were so abundant that they hid him from view entirely. Ivan could still remember countless nights in the past, when he would retire to his room with a dark melancholy eating away at his heart. He remembered how hard he had to struggle in the dark to simply continue existing; how hard he had to fight to prevent Yao from taking him over.

But then the age of the gods ended, and Yao fell. The combination of inept rulers, infighting and greedy Europeans robbed the once mighty-nation of his riches, and left him in shambles, at the mercy of everyone's demands. While Yao was plunging into hell, however, Ivan was ruthlessly ascending the steps of power, becoming a superpower that could almost rival China's former glory. For the first time in history, the situation was reversed, and Yao was at his mercy. He could still remember the giddy rush of victory he had felt when he first laid eyes on the once unrivaled god, humiliated and filthy, sitting dejectedly on the muddy ground, stripped of his status and power. He remembered the surprise and gratitude in Yao's golden eyes, when he had reached out his hand to help, rather than hurt him, and the satisfaction in his heart when Yao finally reached up and took his hand.

The sound of the bathroom door opening caused Ivan to snap out of his blissful recollections, and he looked up with a playful light dancing in his violet eyes. The sight of the beautiful Asian man made his heart swell with pride and joy, so that he almost tripped over himself in haste as he got up as fast as he could to embrace his long-awaited prize.

China's POV ~ * ~ * ~

China felt his fake smile grow into a real one as he watched Russia lope over to him like an eager puppy. A really big, and slightly intimidating eager puppy. The sight was so adorable that he found himself having a hard time staying annoyed.

"I missed you Yao ~" the large man chimed happily, as he wrapped his arms around the lithe form of his small lover and drew him into his chest.

"I was in the bathroom for all of ten minutes. I doubt you can miss me too much in so short a time, aru." China replied jestingly.

"Eh? But I love you!" Ivan exclaimed, releasing China from his bear hug, "and I'm sorry for what I did earlier. You forgive me, da?"

China laughed at the childish innocence in Russia's lilac eyes; it felt more like Russia was apologizing for stealing a cookie, than for invading his body in the most lewd way possible. "Alright, I forgive you," he said, and then in a tone one would use to chide a small child, he continued, "But you have to promise never to do that again, aru. You have to ask for permission before you do that to someone, aru."

"Ok, Ivan promise." The large Russian replied happily "I pick you up now, da?" Before China even had a chance to react, Russia had reached down and swept him off the ground. China yelped in surprise, and buried his face into Russia's broad chest to hide his blush. Wrapping his arms around his large lover's shoulders, China felt his heart flutter contentedly as he closed his eyes and let himself soak up the warmth emanating from the Russian's large form.

Cracking an eye, China sighed exasperatedly as he finally mustered up the resolve to let go of his pride, and forgive Russia for his assertiveness. His resolve strengthened when he felt Russia press a soft kiss to the top of his head and he gave Russia a gentle squeeze to show his unspoken forgiveness. _Just this once_, China thought, as he let Russia carry him over to the large bed, _I won't fight back just this once_.

He opened his eyes again as Russia set him down gently on the bed, and turned his head to watch the blond climb in after him. They shifted around until China was settled comfortably in Russia's arms under the covers. China hummed an approving 'aru' at the gentle treatment before closing his eyes to sleep. They snapped open a second later when Russia pressed an unexpected kiss to his lips. "I love you, Yao." The large blond whispered. China hesitated at the words and after a bit of rumination, decided that he had no reason to hide the affection he felt in return. Feeling his blush return with a vengeance, he brought his lips close to the other's ear before whispering "I love you too…Ivan."

1957

Their relationship was starting to fray around the edges and perhaps in the center as well. They could still live together rather happily though, because the conflict was more of one between their leaders and not between themselves. However, China was China and Russia was Russia; their histories, people, and ambitions differed drastically, and these few brief years of intimacy did nothing to change that. In fact, it barely registered in the fabric of history at all. Or perhaps, it just set the stage for their breakdown: after all, what goes up must come down. And they did nothing to stop it.

1964

"No." China said coldly, his gaze as hard as stone, "I refuse to give you any more territory. and I refuse to stay with you any longer. I've never loved you, and I don't care for you anymore."

"But you have no choice, da." Russia replied with a saccharine smile that did not reach his eyes. "I can take what I want by force and make you stay here, even if you don't want to. Besides, it doesn't matter if you leave now because soon everyone willbe one with Mother Russia, da?" Russia finished, an insane light shining in his eyes.

China felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up from Russia's ominous aura, and he suppressed a shiver before retaliating. "How do you plan to stop me, aru?" he demanded defiantly, "My country has healed, I can fight again, and this time I will win, aru."

"If I break your legs then you can't leave, da? Maybe a nuclear bomb will be enough to weaken your pathetic little country again, and then you won't be able to fight anymore, da?" Russia answered in a sweet voice laced with cyanide.

"So be it, then, aru." China bluffed, there was no way he was going to let himself lose in this battle of dominance; he still had one last card up his sleeve and he was going to play it now. "I am still leaving, even if you do break my legs. And I'm sure America will be happy to become my ally if attack me with nuclear power, aru. You may be able to win over me with nuclear power, but you can't beat _him._"

Russia's POV ~ * ~ * ~

Ivan felt his heart clench painfully at Yao's words. It infuriated him to hear _his_ Yao declare his hatred so casually. How could he deny him like this? Yao was the one person that Ivan had ever truly wanted and it hurt to hear him say that he had never cared for Ivan, that all the times he had said _I love you_ were lies. Ivan felt his heart freeze into a brittle, solid lump in the subzero temperatures of Yao's denial. _Why was it like this? Was he that unlovable?_

Ivan stood still for a moment to let the words sink in, before whipping out his water pipe and swinging it at Yao in a head on feint. Yao's eyes widened in shock as he dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the unexpected attack. Ivan, however, had anticipated the move and he lunged, closing his hand around Yao's throat and slamming him to the ground. For a second, they simply looked into each other's eyes like a sick caricature of romance. A sharp pain clenched Ivan's chest as he acknowledged the hatred he found in Yao's gold eyes. Unshed tears clouding his vision, Ivan allowed himself to love Yao for one last moment before he tightened his lethal grip, lifted Yao by his neck and crushed his lips in a hate filled kiss.

1969

They began to fight in earnest. Neither of them remembered who dealt the first blow- not that it really mattered. They lashed out at each other with minimal restraint, both determined to win the battle; each blow dealing more than just physical damage. With every punch and every strike, the fissure between them widened until it seemed like they stood on opposite sides of a jagged canyon. In the end, they painted their borders crimson without knowing what hurt more: the numerous wounds that ripped across their bodies or the gashes torn into their hearts. They parted ways in the land kissed by ice and snow, neither cried.

* * *

2009

The sharp clack of footsteps resounded through the cathedral, as the hooded figure hurried down the long hallways, without sparing a glance to the lavish religious paraphernalia decorating every surface. The footsteps came to an abrupt stop as the man paused in front of a large stained glass window, displaying the grotesque image of Jesus, anorexic and bleeding, nailed to the cross. The man felt his lip curl in disgust as he contemplated the grisly image. He never did understand how people could worship this, this abomination. How they could call this pitiful excuse of a man God: it sickened him.

Looking down, he located a small, ornate table a little ways away from the window. Seizing it by its spindly legs, the man promptly hurled it through the window with deadly accuracy; shattering the colored glass into thousands of tiny pieces that caught the light as they tinkled down around him like a caricature of rain. The man smirked briefly at the jagged remains clinging pitifully to the window frame, before turning and resuming his brisk pace towards his original destination.

The tall arched hallway turned as it widened into the main sanctuary, filled with neat rows of carved pews, ornate pillars and every form of opulent decoration possible. The sunlight that filtered through the gargantuan stained glass windows painted the room a motley mix of reds, blues, yellows, and greens, while the actual lighting was provided by more modest, clear windows further up on the embellished walls. Walking down the long aisle, the figure kept his gaze on the tiled floor until he reached the steps that normally led up to the alter, but in this case led to a heavy wooden throne. Dropping onto one knee, the man lowered his head in submission before speaking, "Your Majesty, your servant is here to give a report on the status of the project."

"Speak, Ichiro." A low, booming voice commanded.

Closing his eyes, Ichiro inhaled deeply to steel his nerves before continuing. "The Primary Source is stable, and the cloning process has begun. Districts one, three, and nine, are ready to mobilize and await your orders. All necessary preparations have been made; everything can proceed as planned."

"And what of the public?"

Taking another breath, Ichiro continued, "The Propaganda department has managed to woo most of the public with the vision of a united continent, free of woe. Prominent dissenters have been taken care of; the blame will fall on the local governments, and the people are ready to accept your reign. There is nothing to concern yourself with there, My Lord."

"Ichiro. Stand up and look at me."

Ichiro felt the nape of his neck prickle at the command, and he replied with a customary, "Yes, Your Majesty." before straightening up and lifting his head. Raising his dark eyes, Ichiro felt himself shudder internally in apprehension, as he met the soon-to-be-monarch's stony gray gaze.

The Emperor was a large, foreboding man with heavy set square jaws and stern eyes. He was dressed in a navy, double-breasted, military dress jacket trimmed with gold, with tails that extended down to his white slacks; the outfit was completed by a matching cape, with gold epaulets draped over his wide shoulders. Around his neck, a white, ruffled cravat was tied, offsetting the scarlet material of the cloak's high, upturned collar nicely. A black and gold broach displaying a coat of arms was fastened securely at the neckline of the jacket, and served to keep the tails of the cravat tucked out of sight. On his head, the Emperor wore a heavy white wig, that somehow managed to make him looking imposing rather than ridiculous. Overall, the attire spoke of nothing less than complete and undeniable authority.

"What makes you different from any of the ordinary people who make up the public?" The emperor demanded, holding Ichiro's gaze.

"I- I have power. The power to make others do what I want, the power to take lives, to reform the world as I see fit." Ichiro replied, after a slight bit of hesitation.

"And where does this power come from?" the emperor boomed.

Ichiro gulped as his mind went into overdrive trying to think up an answer that would appease the emperor and preserve his life. "From you, your Majesty."

The monarch smiled unnervingly at his answer before answering his own question. "You have that power because you have the resolve, an inner purpose, the strength of will, that gives you that power. You have it because there is a reason for you to crave such control. Every human is inherently capable of attaining this power; it is by no means restricted to those you call elite. So think about this for a moment: the masses are docile right now because they do not have a motive strong enough for them to rise up; however, if we fail to placate them in the years to come, that may change. A leader is only as strong as the people he leads, and a leader is only a leader for as long as the people are willing to submit to him. Can you really say there is nothing to worry about, Ichiro?"

"No, your Majesty. I will be sure to pay more attention to public in the future." Ichiro replied tersely, "Though, if your Majesty does not mind me asking this, why are we seizing power through this method if you intend to honor public interests?"

At this, the emperor threw his head back and laughed. It was the sort of laugh that stemmed from cruel amusement rather than joy, and could make even the most callous souls feel a sense of trepidation. As the brusque laughter reverberated throughout the cavernous sanctuary, Ichiro had to suppress the urge to run from the room, away from this madman. "Who ever said I wanted to be just another leader?" the emperor demanded when he'd recovered from his mirthless delight. "I will become God, Ichiro, and God's actions do not require anyone's approval. I will transcend this meaningless illusion of power you humans cling to, and achieve true power, absolute control. When that time comes, will you be by my side, Ichiro?"

"Of course your Majesty, I live to serve you." Ichiro said with low bow to hide his smirk.

"Good, then tell _all _divisions to mobilize tonight-"

"All divisions, your Majesty?" He received a sharp glare for interrupting the emperor, and quickly ducked his head in apology.

"All divisions, General Ichiro. We take South America tonight. _That is an order_." The emperor said with irrevocable finality, "I trust you won't fail me?"

Ichiro was quick to pick up on the thinly veiled threat, "Yes, your Majesty. Your will shall be done."

The emperor nodded once in approval before turning away, signifying Ichiro's dismissal.

That night, all of South America burned with the flames of revolution, fueled by a madman's fervor as local governments fell with little opposition. A week later, The Emperor was instated as head of the South American Union, his new domain. The coup was relatively silent; the others did not yet know his power. But they would. Their coffins would be his staircase as he ascended to his rightful throne.

* * *

A/N: Hey! You finished! Hope you liked it. Please take a second to review; who do you think should win Alfred's heart? =)

If you are so inclined, we would appreciate any suggestions you might have in regards to a name for our Emperor. He…uh….doesn't have one yet. =)

The character Ichiro is modeled after Captain Shouta of Dolls. The Emperor is modeled after Charles Vi Britannia from Code Geass. All other 'OCs' will be modeled after characters from other mangas/animes but we have changed their names, and we shall explain them to you as they show up.

If you feel like looking at Alfred's awesomely heroic plane, it's real. Take the spaces out of this address:

http:/www. pilotfriend .com/aircraft%20performance/globe%

Translations (Apologies for any mistakes; I only speak English and was therefore forced to rely on Google translator.)

Due, per favore! -Two, please!

Privato?- Private?

Si- Yes

Grazie!- Thank you!

"Benvenuto! Il mio nome è Marco, e io sarò il vostro cameriere per questa sera. Sei pronto a ordinare?" -Welcome! My name is Marco, and I will be your waiter this evening. Are you ready to order?

Ciao, Marco! Sì, lo siamo. Potremmo bisogna procurarsi i Fettuccine Alfredo e ... um ...- Hello, Marco! Yes, we are. Could we please get the Fettuccine Alfredo and...um...

Ti servono Wurst?- Do you serve Wurst?

Bene, allora portargli fettuccine, anche, per favore. Oh! E potrebbe arrivare a noi alcune delle vostre pane squisito bastoni? Io li amo! Grazie, Marco!- Well, then bring him fettuccine, too, please. Oh! And could you get us some of your delicious bread sticks? I love them! Thanks, Marco!

Domo arigato gozaimasu.- Thank you

Arigato- Thank you


End file.
